


Vaults with Lost Keys

by the8thstone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Human Castiel, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possible season 9 spoilers, References to Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Suicide, Season/Series 08 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the8thstone/pseuds/the8thstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean despises him, Castiel knows. More than what Castiel has done, Dean hates Castiel for what he has come to represent: an old, broken relic, of simpler times and simpler emotions.</p><p>A post-season eight speculation fic plus a dash of Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vaults with Lost Keys

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mentions of alcoholism, drug abuse, and (sort of) suicide. The mild dub-con comes from Castiel's inebriation at time of sex. Contains possible season 9 spoilers from Comic Con - or what I read on Tumblr, anyway.
> 
> This includes employing possible-character Tracy as Dean's love interest (sorry, Tracy) and mentioning things like the angels' post-Fall situation and Castiel's predicament. Most of this fic, the Destiel part aside, is composed of speculations, so the spoilery content shouldn't be too bad if I don't point to the specifics.

Dean despises him, Castiel knows. More than what Castiel has done, Dean hates Castiel for what he has come to represent: an old, broken relic, of simpler times and simpler emotions.

Meg once asked him if he ever missed the Apocalypse. Back then, Castiel thought it odd she could ever consider the possibility that he, who rebelled and gave up everything (well, almost everything), would miss the origin of his misery. But now, he understands, and he can relate to her reasoning.

After Metatron casted the angels out of Heaven, Castiel battled Jophiel’s and Sariel’s factions by day and commanded Inais and Gail by night, sleeping for no more than two hours at a time. When he finally reunited with a gratified Sam and a distant Dean, however, his duty was over. He rejected the outer world.

He is done. He has done enough. Let the others fight their problems for once.

Castiel accepted long ago that he could not die. Before, he took it as God’s blessing. Now, it is a curse. Instead of slitting his wrists and potentially harming those around him through God’s wrath—because what else would Castiel deserve after everything he has done?—Castiel drowns himself in alcohol and drugs, and he thinks perhaps, if he dies slowly, God will finally overlook this insignificant little seraph.

Sam tried to stop him at first, of course. Good, kind Sam. And really, Castiel might have heeded his friend’s pleas if he hadn’t seen Dean’s face, a stone cold expression of pure indifference that drives a blade straight into Castiel’s all-too-human heart. Then Castiel smokes and drinks to forget.

It’s funny, because he and Dean don’t speak for two weeks, and suddenly one night, after Castiel took something that made him see five different colors for every shade, he leaves the room he shares with Prophet Kevin, slinks past Crowley’s cell and the new hunter’s door, and wobbles into Dean’s room.

He flicks open the lights and smiles as he finds a shotgun a hair’s breadth away from his nose.

“What’re you doing here, Cas?” Dean asks, lowering his barrel.

“Nice—nice reflexes,” Castiel says, hiccupping a little. Boy, whatever that alley dealer gave him sure has a strong aftertaste. Slowly, he drags his unsteady legs toward Dean. “Your—hic—physical form has always been—hic—excellent in this regard.”

“Cas, what... What are you, stoned?”

Castiel barks out a laugh. “Generally, yeah.”

Then, he sees something in Dean’s he hopes to never see. Not the indifference Castiel has come to accept. Not the anger Castiel has come to miss. No—

He slings an arm around Dean’s neck, and he feels the other man flinch at the contact. “This is—hic—not right. You’re not supposed to look at me—hic—like this.” He presses his forehead against Dean’s. “I—hic—didn’t come here for this.”

Dean rips himself away from Castiel. “How the hell am I looking at you? And just what the hell are you talking about?”

Repulsion drips from every syllable. Castiel smiles again. Much better.

Earlier that day, the lovely Teriel appeared before him and hesitantly informed him of Inias’s death. Three of the angels sympathizing with the Winchesters had also been captured and were most likely being tortured at the very moment.

Castiel leans heavily against the bedroom wall and exhales. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have committed grievous crimes against my own kind. I have stolen, murdered, and assisted with the genocide of your children. But most of all, and worst of all, I have cheated, lied, dealt with the unholy, and betrayed the trust of my friends—”

Dean covers Castiel’s mouth, and for a few seconds, Castiel sees those green eyes flickering side-to-side, searching him. Dean then removes his hand, only to replace it with his lips.

The first kisses are rough, bruising, flavored with desperation and something Castiel is too afraid to identify. He freezes, because he came here for punishment and instead receives... this. Dean senses his unresponsiveness at once, and, as if waking from a stupor, he pulls back, shocked and already pulling away, before Castiel decides—screw it, he is a sinner through and through—and returns the kisses with twice the aggression.

It’s funny, because Dean is supposed to be happily together with Tracy and Castiel is supposed to be content with the orgies he has at the whorehouses each day—yet here they are, at each other like rabbits on Dean’s bed. Between the heat pooling in his abdomen and the drug in his veins, Castiel finds himself wondering whether this is a too-gentle round of hate sex or whether the touches Dean leave are marked with the same guilt Castiel saw in his eyes earlier—and decides it doesn’t matter.

Even though the furthest they get is rutting against each other in short, jerky movements, neither of them lasts for long. Dean collapses next to him, and Castiel feels reality crashing in as the post-sex buzz fades from his ears. He finds it amusing that a good romping is the fastest thing to get him sober.

He sits up from the mattress without a word—what can you say in this situation, really?—and tugs on his jeans. When he stands, a hand wraps itself around Castiel’s wrist.

“I...” he hears Dean say.

Castiel waits for the other man to finish, but as minutes pass, it becomes apparent that Dean never will. So, gently, he tugs Dean’s fingers away, and he heads for the door without looking back once.

And that, perhaps, is the saddest thing of all: not their wordless rendezvous on the bed, but the fact that Dean didn’t fight hard enough for Castiel to stay. And he never will.


End file.
